Steal, page 15
In other words, you’re never truly alone in the Hungarian consulate.
Which was exactly what the three of us were banking on. We were now using the same software to hear when Laszlo got the call from an intelligence official back in Hungary telling her about the American federal agent and the Ivy League professor who were trying to mislead her and her government regarding a hundred-million-dollar Monet, Woman by the Seine, that was presumed gone forever.
I was absolutely convinced that call to her would come. It wasn’t a matter of if.
It was only a matter of when.
CHAPTER 61
I was running on fumes, desperately craving sleep. There’s only so much morally justifiable subterfuge a person can engage in before needing to recharge the batteries.
My plan was to grab a nap for a couple of hours, wake up and cook a three-egg Western omelet, and then, when I’m good and rested and calorically satisfied, clean the apartment a bit before Tracy and Annabelle got home from Marblehead. I’d really missed them both.
Yep. That was my plan. Unfortunately, Mathias von Oehson had his own plan. No sooner had I arrived home when he called my cell. If only I’d let it go to voicemail.
“Where are you?” he asked, skipping any hellos. “Are you in the city?”
“Yes.”
“How fast can you get to the Yale Club?”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” he said. “A half hour, no later. I’m on a plane this afternoon.”
Then he did the most billionaire thing he could do. He hung up on me.
I could’ve called him back and postponed, but I’d already seen firsthand how Mathias von Oehson deals with rejection. Exhibit A, extorting me by buying the building that housed Tracy’s legal aid office.
I changed my clothes and grabbed a cab.
When the Yale Club building in Midtown Manhattan opened in 1915, it was a place where a bunch of rich white guys could gather to feel extra smug about the fact that they attended Yale. Of course, times have changed. These days, the club is a place where a bunch of ethnically diverse people of all backgrounds can gather to feel extra smug about the fact that they attended Yale. That’s progress for you.
“Yes, he’s right over here,” said the hostess. “This way.”
Von Oehson hadn’t mentioned whether he was in the Tap Room or the Grill Room in the club. Both served lunch, and while the more refined Grill Room would normally match his tastes, everyone knows that the Tap Room is the place to be around the holidays. Decked out with garland and poinsettias galore, with its bright-red dining chairs and massive wood beams, the room was a sight to behold. It was as if Santa had designed a ski lodge.
“There he is,” said von Oehson, standing from his back corner table to greet me as I approached. He wasn’t alone. “I’d introduce you to Richard here, but apparently you’ve already met.”
“How could I forget?” I said, shaking the hand of my one and only stalker. Last time I saw Richard Landau, chief compliance officer for Von Oehson Capital Management, he was telling me that his boss—an old college chum—had no idea that he was following me.
“Nice to see you again,” he said.
“You as well,” I replied, although we both knew that was being overly kind. “So did you confess, junior detective Landau, or were you found out?”
“He confessed,” said von Oehson, as we all sat down. “I would’ve fired his ass for stalking you, but he knows all my secrets.” He paused, smiling. “Most of them, at least.”
“I felt guilty,” explained Landau. “I should’ve never doubted my dear friend, and I told him as much.”
“Bullshit,” said von Oehson. “You thought I was losing my grip, and I was.”
“Well, now you’re not. Carter is alive and well and home safe,” said Landau.
“Yes. Yes, he is,” said von Oehson with a look of overwhelming relief. He pointed at a double old-fashioned glass in front of him. Whatever he was drinking on the rocks was now just rocks. “I’d raise a toast, but I’m empty. Dylan, you want something to drink?”
“Actually, it’s food that I could use.”
“I was going to say, you look a little worn down.”
“I had a late night,” I said. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
“Let’s get you a menu, then,” said von Oehson, motioning for a waiter. “In the meantime, Richard, why don’t you get the conversation started. I’ve got to take a piss.”
Landau, head of compliance, nodded dutifully as his boss got up. “Sure thing,” he said.
It was a seamless handoff. Casual. Off the cuff. Very nonchalant.
It was also very unconvincing.
CHAPTER 62
Von Oehson walked away. As soon as he was out of earshot, Landau placed an elbow on the arm of his red chair and leaned toward me. “He doesn’t really have to take a piss.”
“No shit,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“He’s just insulating himself.”
“From what?”
“The conversation you and I are about to have,” said Landau. “His stepping away gives him plausible deniability.”
I deliberately placed my elbow on the arm of my chair, leaning in as he’d done. “I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to admit that to me.”
Landau shrugged, chuckling. “No one ever said I was good at my job.”
The man who looked like the before photo in a diet plan ad when I’d first met him on the street with Elizabeth no longer seemed like such a shlub. This was confidence masked as self-deprecation.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“Mathias told me about the Monet.”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“Everything,” said Landau. “The painting’s entire history, the Hungarian government, how he got it back from them, and now how it’s missing again—like I said, everything.”
“He obviously trusts you a great deal.”
“I’d like to think I’m worthy of it. I’ve known him a long, long time.” He paused, straightening the fork and knife in front of him that didn’t need straightening. “Mathias thinks he knows who has the painting.”
“He couldn’t tell me that himself?”
“I’m sure he could. The problem is the part that comes next, his plan to get the painting back. It’s not exactly legal.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve figured this out yet, but that guy you’ve known for a long, long time? Your old college chum? He’s not exactly a Boy Scout,” I said.
“I know. I’m well aware. Mathias has surely cut some corners along the way. This is different, though.”
“Not exactly legal, as you put it.”
“Let me rephrase that. It’s very much not legal.”
“In that case, don’t tell me what it is,” I said.
“From what I’ve been told, Dr. Reinhart, you’re hardly a Boy Scout, either.”
“Yeah, but that’s because I’m gay. I wasn’t allowed in.”
Landau nodded. Touché. “You don’t even want to know the name?” he asked. “Who we think has the painting?”
“Nope. Not even the initials.”
“Why not?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “Plausible deniability.”
The waiter returned with the menus. “Here you go, gentlemen.”
“I won’t be needing one,” I said.
“Give us a minute, please, will you?” Landau asked, giving the waiter a forced smile.
The second we were alone again he started in with a revamped pitch. I cut him off with a raised palm. “Where is he? Where’s he watching us from?” I asked.
Landau knew better than to play dumb with me at this point. He sighed. “The bar,” he said.
“And you’re supposed to give him some kind of signal, right?”
“When we’re done talking, yes.”
“We’re done talking,” I said. “Wave him over.”
He sighed again. This one was actually more like a huff. Within seconds, it was the three of us again.
Mathias von Oehson had hired me to find his son. Now that Carter was home, I was seeing to the damage that had been done, making sure that the boy would remain out of harm’s way. Carter had been staying out of the public spotlight, and von Oehson’s lawyer had run interference with the police, stalling and muddying up their inquiry as only a fifteen-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer can do. Ostensibly, we were all on the same page—or painting, as it were.
“So what did I miss?” asked von Oehson, settling back in his chair.
I could’ve spent an hour bringing him fully up to speed. I could’ve explained why I didn’t need his plan, or even his thoughts on who might have his Monet. I could’ve gotten a free lunch out of it, too. Did I mention I was starving?
Instead, I cut to the chase. The bottom line. Sometimes in life you fly by the seat of your pants. Other times you know exactly what you’re doing.
“It’s like this,” I said. “How many millions are you willing to spend to buy your painting back?”
CHAPTER 63
“Daddy D! Daddy D!”
Annabelle called out to me in the most wonderful, happy, sing-song-y voice as I walked through the door. She ran as fast as her little legs would let her, jumping into my arms. I squeezed her tight, spinning her around.
“Anna B! Anna B! I’ve missed you so much! Did you miss me? Show me how much!”
She pushed her hands wide apart and giggled. “Dis much!”
“That’s my girl! That’s my Anna B!” I spun her around again, showering her with kisses. “Where’s Daddy T?”
“He’s right here,” said Tracy, coming around the corner.
We formed an Annabelle sandwich as we hugged, which made our little girl giggle even louder.
“I’m so glad you’re both home, safe and sound,” I said.
“I think someone here was a little homesick, actually, so we got on the road earlier than planned this morning.” Tracy gave Annabelle a few playful pokes to her belly. “Isn’t that right, Anna B?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I said. “What did she miss more, me or her toys?”
“Well, to be fair, she does have some really great toys,” he deadpanned. He lifted Annabelle from my arms. “Hey, sweetheart, I have a fun idea. Why don’t you go to your bedroom and get the squishy fishy that Aunt Rebecca gave you so you can show it to Daddy D?”
Annabelle nodded with a big smile as he lowered her to the floor. Off she scampered, disappearing down the hall that led to her bedroom. Tracy and I would now be alone for a minute, which was clearly what he wanted.
Something suddenly didn’t seem right. Or maybe I’m the one who doesn’t seem right?
“Are you okay?” asked Tracy, taking a step back. “You look absolutely exhausted.”
“I hardly slept last night,” I said.
It technically wasn’t a lie, but the two of us had dealt with some major trust issues in the past couple of years—all because I’d hidden my CIA past from him for a long time—so I immediately felt guilty about letting him picture me tossing and turning in our bed as opposed to what I was really doing, risking an international scandal by conspiring to bug a foreign consulate.
“What about you? How was the trip?” I asked. “How’s your sis?”
“It was good,” he said. “She’s good.”
I waited for Tracy to keep talking as he usually did, never needing much prompting to launch into a story, any story, from his daily life. He was like a walking, talking human version of the Metropolitan Diary section of the New York Times.
But here he was, after being away for a couple of days, staring at me and saying nothing. His shoulders tightened.
“Okay,” I said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Who’s Frank?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Seriously? That’s your answer? That’s what you’re going with?”
“Tracy, what are you talking about?”
“I’m not home longer than ten minutes when I get a call from the lobby telling me there’s a delivery for you,” he said. “It’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. I googled it. Three hundred and forty dollars, to be exact. A Brunello. Great meeting you last night, it says on the card. Frank.”
“Oh, that Frank,” I said.
“Ah, and just like that, he remembers. What were you saying about getting no sleep last night?”
Tracy folded his arms, shifting on his feet into the universal gotcha pose. As he did I could see Frank Brunetti’s bottle of Brunello behind him. Say that three times fast. The bottle—with a bow on it, no less—was sitting on the end table in our living room.
I wanted to promise Tracy that this wasn’t what it looked like. Not even close. But that’s the tricky thing about trust in any relationship. Promises only get you so far.
“Let’s at least open the bottle first,” I said. “Then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
CHAPTER 64
Tracy plopped his feet on the ottoman in our den off the kitchen. “I have to admit, this is really good,” he said.
“Which?” I asked. “The Brunello or what I’m telling you?”
“Both.”
I didn’t quite have a second wind, and the red wine wasn’t exactly helping me stay awake, but this was definitely one of those times to keep the focus no matter what. By the middle of our second glass I finished explaining everything that had happened in the days that Tracy was away with Annabelle. The one thing that absolutely didn’t happen was my cheating on him. Tracy’s shoulders had finally relaxed. That didn’t mean I was fully off the hook.
“You should’ve filled me in on the painting from the beginning,” he said.
“No. I shouldn’t have. Von Oehson told me that in confidence. But that was then.”
“And now?”
I looked from Tracy to Annabelle, who was sitting on the couch, completely engrossed in a recording of Sesame Street after showing me her new squishy-fishy stuffed animal. Bert and Ernie were playing the touch-your-face game (thank you, Covid-19 vaccine), and Annabelle was playing right along, smiling ear to ear. Never did the words come so easily. “My family’s more important than any billionaire’s secret,” I said.
Tracy nodded begrudgingly. “Well played, Reinhart.”
“It’s always easier when it’s true.”
“So von Oehson really stole it, huh? The Monet?”
“Stole it back, yeah. I researched the painting after first meeting with him. It was definitely in his family,” I said. “It’s funny, though. As much as I had no reason to think he wasn’t telling me the truth, it wasn’t until Elizabeth and I sat down with this woman at the Hungarian consulate this morning that I knew for sure. The look in her eyes alone when I simply said Monet.”
Tracy poured us a little more of Brunetti’s gift. “I can’t get over the history of this painting,” he said. “It goes from von Oehson’s family to the Nazis, then to the Hungarian government, before ending up back in the von Oehson family. I suppose it’s only fitting that it’s now a mafia boss that somehow has it. Or, that’s what you’re hoping. When will you know?”
“When Brunetti agrees to sell it,” I said.
“But you already tried that on his boat. He turned you down.”
“No. He turned von Oehson down. That’s who I was representing.”
“What, then? You go back to Brunetti with a better offer?”
“I don’t. Somebody else does.”
“Who?” asked Tracy.
“Someone he can trust.”
“Why can’t he trust you? You told him von Oehson was willing to pay to get the painting back, no questions asked.”
“That’s right. Only I wasn’t the one he was looking at when I was telling him that.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes, the one with a badge. The last thing Frank Brunetti would ever do was admit to her that he has this stolen painting or anything else he’s not supposed to have.”
“Okay. Now I’m confused,” he said. “Why did you bring her with you?”
“Because I need Brunetti to think that he’s smarter than me. I mean, who brings a federal agent as a sidekick to negotiate a black market art sale?”
With that, I told Tracy the full plan. The whole enchilada.
“Holy shhhhh—” He looked at Annabelle and caught himself. “Bleep.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Holy bleep.”
His face suddenly lit up. “I’ll do it!”
“Do what?”
“You need someone to act as the broker. I’m your actor.”
“No, you’re not. I mean, you’re an actor, and a very good one, but this definitely isn’t your role.”
“Are you kidding me? This is the part I was born to play,” he said. “I can totally do this.”
“Even if you could, I would never let you.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you mess up with a guy like Brunetti, you don’t get another take,” I said. “You get a bullet between the eyes, or however else the mob is killing people these days.”
“Talk about melodramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. So am I. I’m the reason you’re involved in this whole thing in the first place,” he said. “Mathias von Oehson used me to get to you.”
“Maybe, but it will all be worth it in the end.”
“So let me earn my share.”
I had no intention of saying yes to Tracy. In fact, I’d already lined up someone else for the job. He was an ex-operative I worked with when I was stationed in London. He was still there and he owed me, which was why he immediately said yes when I called. I was flying him in at the end of the week. It was the quickest he could come.
Only suddenly it wasn’t quick enough.
I stared at my phone. Julian might as well have been listening in on the conversation, given the timing of his message. He was letting me know the stars had aligned, that we were a go. One text, two words. Tomorrow night.
I looked at Tracy, contemplating the impossible. It’s true what they say. Desperation is the mother of invention.
